A Night to Forget
by mutants-and-magnolias
Summary: The boy behind the reception desk stares at Scully as if she is a ghost. The women that came in here were usually whores, and definitely not dressed in business suits. (Scully/Other, One Night Stand)


The boy behind the reception desk stares at Scully as if she is a ghost. The women that came in here were usually whores, and definitely not dressed in business suits.

The Spaniard kisses her in the cramped elevator. His thumb finds her clothed nipple, hard in the chill of the aircon. He takes this for arousal and a prompt to kiss her again with extra passion, and saliva.

She is not aroused. She does not like this man or the taste of stale beer and cigarettes on his tongue. It makes her stomach churn. Finally she watches him turn the key to the door of room number 517.

It's just like every other mid-priced hotel room, with a creaking, rattling air-conditioning unit and manufacturer's stickers on the bar fridge. She eyes the gaudy bedspread and ignores Miguel's murmurs of unfelt but apparently obligatory emotion, while he pulls off her blouse and pushes down the cups of her bra.

Where the fuck did he learn the word 'succulent,' she wonders, unzipping her skirt. She doesn't want all this preamble, simply hoping that he'll fuck her hard enough to jolt something loose inside her. That this raw act will uncouple her from the agonizing attachment she has to her partner.

Miguel stands there for a moment, his erection distorting the front of his rain speckled beige chinos. If he thinks she's going to undress him, he's wrong.

"Got a condom?" Scully asks.

"Sure. Of course. But I'm clean."

She manages to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "Yeah? Me too. Put the condom on."

He does as his told, and he tugs her down onto the bed and attempts to enter her, he gets it. She hasn't had a cock in a few years years and she's not wet. The tightness makes him hesitate. He wrestles a hand between them and tries to change her frame of mind via her clit. It's not going to make a difference.

"Just fuck me."

"But you don't seem," he searches his Spanish brain for the word and comes up with, "interested."

"Listen, asshole. Just fuck me."

She doesn't scream at that first inward thrust. He's big but not that big. Instead, she lies there with her teeth clenched and waits for her body to remember what to do. Miguel paws her breast and groans. His cock is only halfway in and the stretch hurts like a sonofabitch. But in that moment, when he thrusts again to hilt himself inside her, the world turns. He changes into something cruel, just as she becomes something acquiescent.

"Is this what you want?" His voice is a croak. The hand on her breast tightens painfully.

The thrusts are punctuated with questions that at first she doesn't feel the need to answer.

"And this…and this…and this…?"

Until the fury of it makes her gasp. "Yes."

Because this is what she wants. Because she feels the hinges of her heart creak under the strain. The violence of it nags at the bolts that moor her to Mulder. Boards rattle, tear-rusted threads strip and shriek.

"Harder. Can't you fuck me any harder?"

He makes a noise like a wounded dog and closes a hand around her neck and squeezes. "Shut up, you bitch," he hisses.

She smiles and closes her eyes. Good to know they're on the same page. Even better to know this new paradigm has done nothing to quell his ardour.

Her body inches across the bed under the pounding. As it produces enough lubrication to protect itself, her passage stings. What traitorous things bodies are. She still doesn't feel the least bit aroused, but she's wet anyway. And she doesn't much care if she never gets up off this bed, but still she gasps and claws for air as his grip tightens around her throat.

Poor Miguel, she muses. I hope he doesn't kill me. It would be a bitch to get rid of a dead FBI agent.

Not that she's too worried about it. All she knows is that the wood inside her is splintering, the brackets snarling loose in the wrenching storm. The structure of every dream she's ever had about Mulder is coming down around her head. And the Spaniard is going to come any second now.

She pushes Mulder out with every hindered, rasping gasp. Her internal muscles spasm shut, her back arches and her spine locks. She's coming. Because it's easy enough to do when it's not Mulder she wants to hold inside. When it's not Mulder whose touch she imagines. Miguel collapses onto her. His tanned flesh twitches in the afterstorm of his orgasm.

He gives a small, embarrassed chuckle and rolls off her. "You," he says, wagging a finger at her, "you're quite the puzzle. But I have figured you out. You're like another woman I used to date."

"Really?" she sits up, uninterested, and begins to dress, adjusting her bra, pulling on her blouse.

"Yes. Very beautiful. Some kind of police woman."

"Funny, " Scully says, standing up and stepping back into her skirt. "So am I."


End file.
